


Steel, Smoke, and Scales

by Keisoe



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Civilians, Comedy, Corruption, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Gangs, Gangsters, Gun Violence, Investigations, Investigative Journalist, Law Enforcement, Lighthearted moments, Mentor/Protégé, Multi, Multiple Protagonists, Mystery, Organized Crime, POV Alternating, Partners in Crime, Turf War, Yakuza, fictional city, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23092321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keisoe/pseuds/Keisoe
Summary: A city of steel, a covenant of smoke, and a gathering of scales.Welcome to Neoville.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. Gone Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original work of fiction created after an AU I made with a group of friends that revolves around who and what we would be in an imaginary city run by an equally imaginary mafia family. Add detectives, gang wars, innocent civilians dragged into the mess, and the yakuza—you got yourself a melting pot of action and crime. 
> 
> While the characters were inspired by real people, their names and likeness (both appearance and personality-wise) have been altered to varying degrees.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A newcomer to the city dreams of rebuilding his life.
> 
> However, a misguided night stroll leads him to realize how hard it’s going to be to call this place as his home.

“So, Ray—”

“Uh, actually, I go by Han,” he chirped.

Manny instantly stopped going through the CV, looking up at him with a questioning gaze. Han wasn’t sure whether the older man had paused to ponder over the choice of nickname or if he couldn’t hear what was said over the hustle and bustle of the bakery. 

An awkward, tense second passed. 

Han tried his best to plaster a smile to his face albeit the smell of baked pastries and shouts of orders in the background were making him increasingly agitated. 

He remembered the magazine Sara gave him last night —the one with a page on tips for job interviews—and how he stayed up all night going over the stupid paragraphs multiple times. He’s not sure whether he’s “showing his high spirits to his potential employer” but he was _trying,_ dammit. 

Yet he was starting to break with sweat despite the air conditioning going on full blast. Perhaps coming in during the business' busiest hour was a bad idea. Manny _did_ tell him to come anytime he’d like, though.

He unknowingly began to fiddle with the edge of his hoodie. 

Should he come back tomorrow? No, that would be rude; and weird. Oh, God, does Manny think he’s being weird? He should’ve listened to Sara—

“Oh, I see!” Manny blurted, startling Han in his seat. He was just beginning to wonder whether it was noticeable, but the man had already continued. “Sorry about that, not a lot of people these days prefer to be called by their last names.”

He gave Han a smile that reminded him of a puppy. A golden retriever puppy, if you will. Funny how somebody as tall and big as Manny can exude the same energy as a field of sunflowers.

“But anyway, _Han.”_ He slid the CV across the table. “Your records look good. We would love to hire you here!”

Han perked up, blinking a few times. “You...would?” he asked carefully, knowing that—while his CV was okay—he had _explicitly_ expressed how he didn’t have any experience working in retail.

Manny beamed. Hell, his smile was so bright he could provide light to this city for the next 20 years.

“Sure! And between you and me,” —he dipped closer, whispering in a hushed tone— “Greta might not like admitting it, but we _do_ need help running the bakery.” 

Han’s gaze followed Manny’s as he turned to see the young woman running the cashier. Greta wore a pink headscarf that has white stains of flour all over. Upon closer inspection, Han could see strands of curly black hair underneath it. Her apron was the same lily-white as Manny’s—though hers is much cleaner.

If Manny had reminded him of a huge and gentle Golden Retriever, Greta was the embodiment of a bunny; hopping around all over the place trying to cater to their many patrons. One second she was fetching a fresh batch of cinnamon buns — and now she’s over at the register to receive a customer’s payment while simultaneously calling out “Welcome to Neapolitan!” to the ones that had just entered. 

Han wondered whether his help was truly needed, but he decides to trust Manny’s insight. “When can I start?”

“Let’s see...does tomorrow work for you? You’ll most likely be working as the cashier first and Greta’s a good teacher, won’t take you that long to know the ropes.”

He nodded along. “Sure, tomorrow sounds good.”

“Excellent!” Manny practically roared. Han jumped on his seat and stiffened as Manny pulled him into what essentially is a bear hug. The bear (or Golden Retriever, either one works) patted him on the back—Han swaying with each one—and barked merrily. “Hey, Greta! Han’s gonna be helping us starting tomorrow, ‘mkay?”

“That’s great!” Greta shouted from somewhere within the backroom. “But you know what would be even greater?” She emerged, now carrying a tray of fresh glazed donuts. “If you come here and help me _run this place_ ,” she emphasized on the last part—shooting her partner a pointed look.

Manny let out a hearty laugh that rumbles both him and Han. “You heard the lady. We’ll see you tomorrow at seven a.m, eh?”

Han nodded. Tomorrow at seven.

* * *

After speaking with Greta—and learning how friendly she is when she’s not running around here and there—Han exited the bakery, holding a warm lunch bag in his arms. 

He peeked inside the bag and a welcoming smell of bagels wafted up into his nostrils. Manny had shoved them to him when he was about to leave, making a comment about how he _had_ to take them. 

_As thanks_ , Manny said. 

Han grabbed one of the bagels. It was fluffy, perfectly toasted, and had just the right amount of sesame seed on top —if there was such a thing. 

He took a bite. Normally he’s not one for eating on the side of the curb, but the delicious smell of the bakery really made him salivate. He thought to himself, munching as the pitter-patter of people passing by came and went. 

_He should be the one thanking them, really._

His phone vibrates as he was taking his last bite. Reaching into his pocket, he unlocks it and reads the incoming message: 

> _R u done? I’m on break so come on over!!_

He shoved the phone back with a tiny smile.

Swallowing the last piece of bread, he began walking to the right of the bakery with a leisurely pace. It didn’t even take him twenty steps before he’s met by a massive building lined by reddish-brown brick. A huge navy and gold insignia sits at its front. 

_Neoville Police Department. Sixth Precinct._

Han had to physically contain a chuckle.

The stereotype of police and donuts had gone a long way (he’s not even sure why or who started it) but having the city’s biggest police precinct sitting _right next_ to the city’s oldest bakery is truly taking it to the next level. Even earlier, when he was being interviewed by Manny, it wasn’t hard to notice officers taking lunch breaks in the bakery.

If anything, it was genius marketing. Shame how he didn’t see how many of them ordered donuts back in the store. 

Sauntering closer, he walked past uniformed officers and civilians that are littered in front of the entrance. His eyes searched from human to human, before landing on a woman in a white cardigan who just stepped out of the building. 

He called out to her. “Sara!”

She whipped her head and grinned. “Hey!” She padded over to him, circling her arms on his torso as Han was much a taller person than she was. “How did it go, bud?”

“It was fine.”

It took a second before Sara reeled back, squinting at him with a raised eyebrow in a mix of concern and confusion.

“I got the job,” he mumbled.

Again, she took a second before her expression turned into pure rejoice. She let out a tiny, gleeful cheer before squishing him down to her height. “You got a job!!”

“Yes,” he retracted away, pushing a flat hand against her forehead, “in a bakery.”

Her huff was louder than he expected. “A job’s a job. I mean, I work as a receptionist and” —she slapped his hand away—” it’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, a receptionist at a police precinct,” he gestured to the police station behind them. “Big difference.”

“How’s that different!?” She stepped on her tiptoes to try and ruffle his hair. Han, however, had grown to be an expert in evading Sara’s attacks.

“I don’t know, police job is important, I guess. They catch bad guys, keep the city in order….” He gave her a mockingly serious look. “They get to shoot guns, Sara.”

“What, like yours isn’t important?”

“I mean, I won’t be shooting guns—”

That one earned him a smack on the arm.

“Do you know how people would _riot_ if Neapolitan ever went out of business? They basically sell bread to 80% of the people here.”

Han opened his mouth but she interjected, “And I’m not just talking about the sixth.”

His eyes made a noticeable roll. “Fine. Can’t wait to start my life of selling bread to hungry police officers—”

“— _and_ provide nutrients to the good people of the city,” she added. “Speaking of _nutrients_ …” Sara’s eyes made way to the lunch bag. 

“You can have them.” Han relinquished the bag of bagels to her, earning a long hiss of “ _yeesss bageeelssss_ ” that made him question if his roommate truly is a snake. 

“Whnn wull yuo strt?” she mumbled. Her cheeks had doubled in size and filled with bites of bread. 

Nevermind a snake; he’d been living with a squirrel.

She took a big swallow after receiving a judgmental look from him. “Sorry, I meant to say—when will you start?”

He shrugs. “Tomorrow. Seven a.m.”

“Awesome!” She slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Beef stew. Tonight”

“You know, I can’t tell if you’re this excited over me getting a job or you’re just happy that I can finally pay rent,” he eyed her suspiciously. 

“Of course I’m happy for you!” she exclaimed, still munching away on the bagels. Then her face slowly morphs into a sheepish grin. “...Although, the rent thing is pretty nice as well.”

Han went deadpan. “Right. So, beef stew—”

“Yes!” Sara whizzed to him. “Beef stew! I’m cooking, okay? So you just sit back, relax—”

“And the groceries?”

_Silence._

He could practically hear the gears in her head whirring and turning. Perhaps she was beginning to remember how the items they have in their fridge are an ancient pack of sausages that he suspects had come with the fridge itself, an almost empty bottle of ketchup, and Sara’s half-drunk cup of bubble tea that he had been trying to convince her not to drink so much of. 

Han sighed, knowing that Sara won’t get off work today until at least 7 p.m. “I’ll get groceries.”

She cracked a nervous laugh. “I owe you, buddy.”

“You bet your ass you do. You’re still cooking, okay.”

“Right, right. Look, my break’s gonna end soon so I’m gonna need to head back. Thanks for this, though!” She bounced the lunch bag on her hands. “You know what to get for the stew, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Get your butt inside already.”

Sara giggled as she walked back into the building. “See you tonight!”

Han was about to go as well when he heard her add “Don’t get lost again!”

Han made another roll of his eyes as he turned away. He tightened the strings of his hood before striding off—

—and opening Google Maps. 

* * *

Alena was busy signing off some form at the front desk when a brown substance was _unceremoniously_ dumped into her view. Glancing up, she sees that it’s a brown lunch bag. 

And atop of it is Sara’s stupid grinning face.

“ _Why?_ ” Alena questioned curtly, returning to her forms. 

“Bagels!” the receptionist sang out, grabbing one from the bag. Not one second later she was busy devouring it, sesame seeds scattered around her mouth.

Alena stood straight now, squinting her eyes. “Why?”

“Got ‘em from Neapol’s next door. My roommate was just having an interview.” 

Her raised eyebrow didn’t go unnoticeable by Sara.

“The one who I told you has been looking for a job,” she quickly added.

“The….” —Alena took a pause—”...one from the countryside? Mirfield, right?”

“Yup!” Sara booted up her desktop. “Boy, I was kinda concerned that three months wasn’t enough for someone to adjust to Neoville.” She entered her password. “But he seems to handle it pretty well!”

Alena made a silent “ah” as she finished up on the last of the forms. “I take it he got the job?” She slid the form into its designated file, handing it across the counter for Sara. 

“Yeah! Thank goodness, right? I wonder if this means I can get more free bread in the future...” A mischievous smile crawled unto her face as she flipped over the documents, making sure there weren’t any errors. “Bagels?” she offered once more.

Alena politely refused. “Not a bagel kind of person.”

Sara made a horrifyingly dramatic pout at the remark.

The rest of the bagels were given to an administrator who was sorting out documents behind her — who was more than happy for free food. Sara then returned to her. “Whatcha up to now, then?”

“ _Nothing._ ”

Her irritated tone must have been very crystal clear, with Sara offering her a sad smile. “No luck with John?”

“None,” Alena seethed. She pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing loud enough to make Sara laugh a little. “How does a police precinct run when the Captain is _out cold_ on his desk half of the time?”

A shrug was all she received as the other young woman typed away into her computer. “It is how it is. Neoville has a ton of crime but it isn’t, like, crime all day every day, you know?” Sara set aside a sympathetic smile to her. “Maybe you can take it easy on slow days like this.”

Alena huffed. “I didn’t become a detective to _take it easy_.” 

Oh, crap—there she goes again.

She was hoping her words didn’t sound too venomous but—to her horror and surprise—Sara went down in a maniacal laughing fit.

Several people at the lobby had to stop what they were doing to stare at the receptionist that was shaking and _cackling_ _like a witch_ behind her desk. Even everyone's favorite janitor, Hector—who at this point has seen everything and anything one could witness in life—took a worrying pause from mopping the floor.

The apologetic and panic-laced look Alena offered them is one that screams: I DO NOT KNOW THIS PERSON _._

“Man, it’s true!” Sara wiped a tear away from the corner of her eyes, “Why are you taking it so seriously, Lena? You’re no fun!”

She then sat up straight, taking on a joke of a serious expression. “You got no jams, Alena. Absolutely none.”

“Well, _excuse me_ for taking my job seriously,” the detective retorted viciously. “And by the way,” she added, “I _do_ have jams.”

“Where!?” Sara exclaimed, bolting up and looking left and right. “ _I see no jams_.”

Alena glared at her, already pivoting to walk away before she was swiftly stopped. “Okay, wait, wait, wait—I need you to give this to Captain,” Sara begged as she dropped a stack of new files into her arms.

“And _why_ —” Alena released the stack back unto the counter “—do I need to be the one bringing him these?”

“You said it yourself that he’s passed out on his desk! Besides,”—the documents were once more relocated into Alena's arms as she held _yet another_ stupid grin on her face—” you’re already here.”

“Ugh.” Alena fixes the files into a more comfortable hold. “Fine.”

She hears Sara singing out a melodic “ _thank youuuu_ ” as she walked away, the badge on her belt clinking along. She passed a few halls, desks, officers chatting next to the water cooler, and complaining civilians before arriving at an all-too-familiar bullpen.

Strutting across it, she passed by her fellow detectives’ desk. Some were left empty, some were occupied as their owners filled out their own mountain of paperwork. As Alena greeted them one-by-one, she made a silent gratitude to herself as she had already cleared out her own desk work.

She approaches the office door at the very end of the room. She had to carefully wedge the heavy files up with her knee before grabbing the doorknob. These stupid papers are truly becoming heavier than she thought.

Alena didn’t bother to knock before entering— it makes no difference, anyway. 

As the door clicked close, she examined the situation. In front of her, in all its glory, is the Captain’s office.

The room was small, enveloped by a boring beige wallpaper that didn’t compliment the limited space whatsoever. There’s a big pane of windows overlooking the bullpen outside and that was pretty much it. The few furniture inside were a grey sofa, a creaky coffee table, a dying houseplant that nobody bothers to water, a big mahogany bookcase splayed across one side of the room, and a desk—

—which harbors the snoring Captain himself.

He had kicked his shoes off with his feet resting on top of the desk. Laying back on his chair, a police hat covered his face. His jacket was thrown to the sofa and files upon files were neglected across the room. She's used to seeing it on the floor or forgotten at the coffee table, but Alena saw one somehow landing between the leaves of the houseplant—causing her to suspect that he was flinging it around.

Considering the empty glass of— _of course_ —bourbon on the desk, it certainly was a big possibility. 

Great.

Alena took a few careful steps. “Captain.”

He replied to her with a snore.

She sighed. “Captain Isaac. _Sir_.”

The snore was somehow even louder.

_Okay then_. 

Taking Sara as a wonderful example, she dumped the whole stack on the desk with a loud _bang_ , relishing as her Captain stirred awake.

John took away the hat resting on his face and blinked at her a few times with alertness. She saw him coming to his senses, recognizing her, before ultimately—and much to Alena’s chagrin—receding back into his chair.

“Rookie.” she heard him mutter. His voice sounded slurred, exactly like someone who had just been awoken from their sleep. But drunker.

Much, _much_ , drunker.

“Files for you, sir. Also,”—she wonders how many times she’ll have to remind him—” please call me Ainsley.”

“Great,” he chippered sarcastically, though making no move to acknowledge the documents at all. “Are these all?”

“Yes.” 

Her initial instinct was to take her leave and excuse herself from this sad, sad, room; but she held herself and took an uncertain step closer to the desk. “And sir, are you sure that there’s….” She had to pause, looking for the correct way to express herself. “That there's...nothing that I can do right now?”

John slowly lifted his eyes at her, looking somewhat half annoyed and half entertained.

With a guttural sigh, he finally sat up straight and began flitting his gaze over the mountain on his table. “You cleaned up almost all the open cases we had, Rookie. What more do you want to do?”

“ _Ainsley_ ,” she quickly corrected him. “It’s just that…today has been so slow. Are you sure there’s nothing I can take up?”

“Well, there’s an old lady who got lost on the park today—”

“No, thank you.”

He made a loud and amused “ _hah!_ ”, pushing aside the files to take a good look at her. “Look, you’ve been here less than half a year. You eat up cases like it’s nothing, sure, but I also know that you’re not one to take on mediocre tasks either.”

She watched him summon another bottle of bourbon out of _practically nothing_ before pouring its contents into his glass, glug-glug-glugging away.

Witchcraft, she swears. 

Her brain cells were commanding her to remind him of the rules about consuming alcohol during work hours, but she decided to remain silent. 

Again— _it won’t make any difference_.

“Slow days happen, kiddo. Don’t stress about it, alright? You’re not the only detective in this precinct.”

“I know that,” she persisted. “Just...promise me you’ll alert us if a case opens up. I’m about to die out of doing nothing here and I’m _not_ going to be helping Jameson on how to put on his vest— _again._ ”

“Deal.” He swung back his glass, downing half of it in one chug. “Now can you please leave me and my drink in peace, Rookie?” he shooed.

Alena sighed for the hundredth time today. “Ainsley,” she corrected once more.

Sadly, she knows she won’t get any better than this from John. Both with the nickname and with her crippling boredom. Giving him a nod, turning to leave when she hears him hoot—

“And take it easy, _Rookie_.”

Then she slammed the door shut. 

* * *

It had already gone dark outside when Han walked out of the supermarket, trotting a big bag of groceries in his hands. His phone was tucked away in his jeans—he felt like he had memorized the way home better now.

Walking at a brisk speed, he tried to make sure in his head that he had everything Sara would need. She made beef stew often enough that the ingredients were basically cemented into his mind, but he wanted to be sure as he absolutely _won’t_ be willing to take another trip to the store.

Looking ahead, he notices that his surrounding was stark calmer compared to how it was in the afternoon.

Streetlamps were dimly illuminating the pavements, crickets were cricketing—as Sara would say—and there were people walking home looking too exhausted for their own good. Some shops are even beginning to close up, to his surprise.

It’s Neoville, of course, so the city never _actually_ sleeps—and neither do the people. Yet Han had always valued how the city’s nighttime allows him to think.

And think he does.

He mused over many different things. His family’s farm back in Mirfield, his cats, his parents, his brave but pretty stupid decision to move to Neoville in hopes of living a more exciting life—those are a few of them. 

Mirfield had nothing compared to Neoville, yes, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the quiet and calm of the small town. The people were friendlier, rent and food were cheaper, and it had loads of cornfields.

But that was the problem. 

_All it had were cornfields_. 

When Han came of age and realized that there were only two futures to be had in his town—becoming a corn farmer or moving away—he took up the latter option because, unlike his parents, he never found corn interesting in any way. They’re good buttered up and grilled on the cob.

But that was pretty much it.

And he wasn’t about to spend the rest of his life buttering and grilling in a place that only five people have heard about, no matter how pleasant and quaint his father always made it seem to be.

Even though moving to Neoville was a daring thing to do, Han appreciates how it hasn’t been as bad as he imagined it would be. He has met incredibly nice people —Sara, and perhaps Manny and Greta being few of them—and while he had trouble finding work; he deemed it better than whatever is waiting for him back home.

He still reminds himself to be careful, however. 

He has heard, mostly from Sarah, about how bad Neoville can be when you flip its coin. The homelessness, the corruption hidden in the government, not to mention the crime—

Han stopped in his tracks.

_He heard something._

He flipped his head around. He’s absolutely sure of it, what he heard was—

He stopped.

Oh, God. There it was.

A few meters in front of him was the biggest, chunkiest calico cat he had ever seen in his life.

And my God, _she’s an adorable gift to this universe._

Han was about to approach it before suddenly restraining himself. He had to take the ingredients home. That’s a priority—the beef stew, of course. Sara was going to whip his ass if she found out that he was coming home late because he was busy, what, petting a stray cat?

No, no. That won’t do. 

The cat was starting to walk away, and Han was adamant that this was okay.

Yet his feet followed her.

_Damn it._

So there he was, groceries still in hand, _pssh pssh_ -ing at a cat that he doesn’t even know. The calico, in turn, walked away faster, borderline sprinting to the direction of the city’s docks. Was she scared by him? No, that can’t be it, he told himself.

He sprinted after it, following it into the docks lined with shipping containers and resting cargo ships anchored at the pier. 

As the smell of salt and ocean began to hit him, half of his mind was screaming “IT’s ONLY A CAT, TURN YOU ASS BACK AROUND!” while the other half was responding with “....but it’s a cat”.

Fortunately for him—and his legs—the cat ceased running in front of one of the containers and finally, _finally_ , he managed to catch up to her. She seems friendlier than he thought, considering how she _ran_ from him earlier, as he reached down offering his hand. 

To his delight, she purrs and nudges his hand around with her fat cheeks. Han let out a satisfied breath. He wonders if anybody owns her—

_“Is it done?”_

Han froze. 

The calico is still silently running her cheeks on his finger when he hears another voice, coming from behind the container.

“Yes, I’ve set it up perfectly”

Han ducked low to the ground. His instincts are telling him it’s high time to get the hell away because, if anything, it’s rude to eavesdrop on other people.

Unfortunately, he decided that today's the day where he’s being a pretty rude person.

He soundlessly scoots closer to the voices, peeking his head around the edge of the container. He got close enough to see what was behind them properly, but not enough to be seen.

There was a woman and a man conversing near a different, much larger container.

The man was tall, lanky, and wearing a leather jacket. His posture was unnaturally rigid, quiet, and tense. Han would think he was a mannequin if he didn’t notice that the man was actually breathing.

The woman—who seems to be more of the talkative one between the two—had dark short hair with purple streaks. She wore a black shirt, and he could see what seemed to be tattoos trailing down her arm. It was big enough for him to shape out what the drawing was.

Is that... _a dragon?_

He didn’t know what to make of it.

“Then it’s time to send them a message,” the woman miffed. Her voice was hoarse and evidently riddled with anger. “They don’t mess with us, and they sure as hell don’t mess with Zenkei.”

Han hears a soft _click_ , followed by a low, constant _tick-tick-tick_ coming somewhere behind the two.

Huh.

He tried to convince himself that these two people are probably two lovely and hardworking fishermen and that Zenkei is probably an equally lovely co-worker of theirs—but the scene was far too suspicious for it to be the case. 

And his suspicion stands corrected when Han sees—as the man shifted—the gun strapped into a holster on his thighs.

_Oh._

“It’s on. We should go,” he heard the man bellow in a low, almost robotic voice.

Before Han could catch more of whatever was actually going on, the pair had bolted away; rushing in heavy steps that were soon replaced with—what Han could guess—is the sound of a motorcycle starting up.

The engine revved a little too loudly before fading away just as fast as it began.

All that’s left now are the sound of waves crashing, boats creaking...

...and that curious ticking.

Han took it that they had left on the motorcycle, hinting that it was time for him to skedaddle too. 

He was just contemplating what he was going to tell Sara on the scene he just witnessed when he noticed—

The calico cat—which had been obediently sitting next to him for the whole exchange—was no longer near him.

He looked around in a panic before spotting her.

She’s walking to the direction of the ticking. 

Of _fucking_ course _._

Han quickly shot up after the cat. He’s not sure what exactly the ticking noise was—or if he wants to know, for that matter—but every fiber of his body is telling him that it’s probably _not something good_.

He could leave now and pretend that this stupid wandering never happened and that he heard no man or woman tonight—but his conscience wouldn't let him abandon the calico.

Running after the cat, he got up to the container where the woman and man had stood in front of—snatching the feline up into his cradle. As she wasn’t struggling against his hold, Han let out an exhausted sigh and turned to leave.

But he saw it.

On the side of the shipping container was a black metal box, strapped hastily with duct tape. It was as big as his palm and colorful wires were coming out and around it. The most interesting thing, however, was the digital display at its front.

It was a number.

_Fifteen._

Odd, he thought. He doesn’t know what it stands for.

The calico in his arms begins to stir around.

As he blinked, the number had changed.

_Fourteen._

He blinked once more.

_Thirteen._

The calico meows harshly at him.

_Twelve._

But why does it look familiar?

_Eleven._

The cat had jumped away out of his hands, running off somewhere—

_Ten._

And finally, quick as lightning, _something hits him_. 

He has seen this before. On one of those shows that he loves to watch with Sara on the weekend. 

That’s right.

Han had watched enough true-crime documentaries to know what a bomb looked like. 

And that—that is a ticking bomb.

Han jerked.

Oh.

_That’s a fucking ticking bomb._

Pulling himself away faster than he ever did in his life, he mustered up whatever strength he has—

—and _runs_. 

As his feet whip out ahead and adrenaline boils inside his bloodstream, the sound of ticking was beginning to slowly subsides. Han starts to calculate in his head whether he had run far enough, or if she should be picking up speed.

He can’t remember what the timer was showing. Ten? Thirteen? Eighteen?

Han tells himself it doesn’t matter. What matters is he’s running away from it. 

Yet he continued to debate with himself over his ridiculous need to know. He had spent the night satisfying his curiosity, and now he curses himself at how it’s begging for more. 

He gritted his teeth. 

He can look behind him and still run, right? 

He’s not in danger, _right?_

As variations of thoughts and words packed his mind, images begin to flutter—

They were visions of his family. His father’s old tractor, and the miles of cornfields where he used to play hide-and-seek.

He sees his childhood bedroom. He sees his sister's favorite dress swaying on the laundry line they had set up in the backyard. He feels the wet grass on his feet—

_—he could smell the scent of his mother’s apple pie._

He mentally slapped them away from within him. 

He is _not_ going to die tonight. All he needs to do is make sure that he’s far away enough to be safe. That's it. He just needs to take a peek. A small, harmless peek.

So he turns his head.

And he sees it.

Still taped up to the container. Still ticking away.

Han noticed how he had made some distance between himself and the bomb—

_—but he could still see the timer reaching zero_.

* * *

Things in the sixth precinct was— _somehow_ —still going slow.

Alena tried to see whether other departments had any open cases she could help with, but there was none. Nothing. _Absolutely nada._

So she spent the rest of her hours in discussion with her co-workers, to see what they’re up to and whatnot. She didn't particularly savor the conversations but what's a girl to do in an office that's trying to suffocate her with lack of actual work.

It was close to the end of her shift and Alena was instructing a new patrol officer on their routes tonight—when she heard a yell.

“ _Rookie!_ ”

She whips around quicker than anything. John stepped out of his office in strong, hasty steps, shrugging his jacket on. “Time to go!” he shouted as he briskly walked towards the exit.

Somehow she could hear the almost unnoticeable panic in his voice.

A part of her got scared by it. 

Nodding a quick goodbye to the officer, she caught up to her captain and followed suit in his pace.

“Captain? What's going on?”

He didn’t stop walking nor did he look at her. She threw him a quizzical look. Is he not going to bother telling her where they're going?

Just as she opened her mouth to produce a remark, her ears began to pick up on numerous sounds surfacing around them.

Phones had suddenly gone off all over the station.

She begins to hear other shouts of commands and gasps of horror. So many things were buzzing out of their radio—all at once.

Officers and detectives started to run around; picking up their badge, radio, and car keys before racing out in a blur. Papers were flying, badge numbers were being shouted into different coms. She hears "respond" and "emergency" over and over again.

The 6th Precinct was quaking—

—and her guts quivered with it.

She had to stop in her steps, unsure if she needed to pause to take it all in or to calm herself down. "Sir?" she questioned the man next to her.

But he wasn't beside her.

Unlike her, John didn't cease walking. He was already so many steps ahead of her, reaching the front entrance of the precinct. Growing desperate, she shouted at him in a more demanding tone.

"Captain!"

He stopped.

Turning around ever so slightly, his unnaturally neutral expression met with her pleading one. Yet, he gave no answers to her questions.

“You wanted a case, right?” he finally spoke, half-shouting from their distance.

She halted, studying him.

Behind them, someone was ordering numerous ambulance for a certain location that she didn't manage to catch. Administrators and technicians loitered around the lobby, unsure of what they could do to help.

Alena continued to stare.

Then she confidently—yet carefully—nods her head. 

He remained still. She thought perhaps he was unconvinced by her when—to her surprise—he nods back.

“Well, your wish has been granted.”

* * *

A blackened, burnt up crater had formed up to replace what once were lines and lines of shipping containers. Parts of the dock had crumbled, the other were _still_ crumbling into the ocean in deep, echoing splashes. 

Smaller ships had turned over. Seagulls were circling the docks, screeching too loudly for anybody’s comfort. 

Dust and ash danced and swirled together to the rhythm of police sirens that grew deafening and steady.

The night sky was painted with a tinge of orange as a plume of red smoke rose—and its air carried glowing embers and the smell of scorch far enough that people downtown could catch its scent. 

Everywhere at once, the citizens had paused. 

Sentences cut short, kisses became halted. Meals half-eaten and cigarettes left to burn. 

Perhaps some of them—or rather those who had lived in this city long enough—knew what had happened. But only a few would actually dare to question it.

Somewhere in between the millions and millions who froze in their steps tonight, Sara slowly stepped out of the police station, hugging her cardigan tight. 

Police cars had rushed out seconds ago—red and blue painting everywhere whilst people around her were entranced at the cloud of smoke in the distance. Some were taking videos of it while others began hugging their significant other.

_An explosion._

At least, that's what a police officer hastily told her earlier when she snagged him up and _demanded_ an explanation. 

She shuddered. 

Was it a terrorist attack? A factory whose engine accidentally blew up? A science experiment that went wrong?

Her entire being shook.

Though she wasn’t sure if it was out of fear.

She pulled out her phone. Typing a message to Han, she asks him if he was already home—and if he’s seeing what she’s seeing.

She clutches the phone in her hand as the message sent, returning her eyes back to the crackling sky.

_And she waits for his response._

Yet, a few meters from ground zero—among burning rubbles and deformed pieces of metal—lies the charred and bleeding body of Han.

Sweet, innocent Han; who now serves as one of Neoville’s many victims.

The folks back in Mirfield with their stupid cornfields and jeans overalls—they had been right.

He should have stayed home after all.


	2. Blood and Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of it all leaves Neoville shaken the following day.  
> As Alena jumps into the investigation, she finds the only thing missing at the precinct is her patience.  
> Somewhere else, sinister movements begin to stir.

_This is ridiculous._

The girl stood on her tiptoes, the edge of her sneakers pressing against the floor. 

She tries to extend her neck upwards, shimmying left and right while making sure to keep her balance. Tilting her chin up, her thin legs ultimately wobbled in protest before she succumbs to defeat—falling flat on the soles of her feet.

A crowd had formed up in front of her—one where someone of her height would have _no_ leverage against. Although she could not see it, she knows that they’re surrounding the big how-many-inch flat-screen TV mounted on the wall of the residence hall.

Everyone—and she means everyone—all over the campus had gathered up wherever they could find a TV. The TVs themselves are always kept turned on, displaying the latest breaking news and occasionally flipping from one reporter to another. There were students, professors, RAs, visiting parents, and general passersby all bundled up around her, clamoring at different volumes.

What were they all watching? Well, just the usual reports—

  
  


—about the explosionat the docks last night.

At the time, she was in her dorm room, pulling up an all-nighter to finish up on some homework when Isa—her roommate and closest friend—rushed in looking somewhat frazzled, stammering about what the other students had heard. 

She joked with Isa that even though crime and chaos were bound to happen in Neoville, something like _a freaking explosion_ sounds a bit too far-fetched. The city hasn’t heard of any terrorist activities for a long, long time—so why? Why tonight? Why the docks, of all places to blow up?

She had already returned to her homework when she convinced Isa that whoever told her about it—probably notorious class-clown Jason—was messing with her.

And yet.

She had to take a swallow when they saw the red smoke that had no place at the 1 AM sky, as she and all other residents of the dorm stepped outside when they finally hear sirens going off in the distance.

Other students, all ranging from freshmen to seniors, had begun to panic. She remembered hearing one of them yell “What’s going on!?”

What’s going on was _someone really had blown up the docks,_ and she had owed Isa an apology. 

Blinking back the memory, she reels as the crowd around the TV had practically tripled in size. 

This won’t do, she thought. Not only was she cursed by being too short of a human to see anything substantial on the screen, but the outrageous number of people pushing all around her is also starting to become uncomfortable. Maybe she can find another TV in the lab instead.

> “ _And now, new information has surfaced regarding the bomb that went off at the city’s docks—late last night.”_

She tensed up.

Someone from within the crowd let out a loud hush and all chatters died down, leaving only the voice of the news anchor to fill the room.

> _“Officials have released the count—tallying up 13 deaths and 47 injuries. However, they stated that the numbers might still grow higher as search and rescue efforts around the blast’s perimeter is still ongoing.”_

She hears low whispers being passed around. A lot of them began looking at one another, as if in disbelief over what they’re hearing.

The hair behind her neck slowly stood up, making her stir in discomfort.

_Thirteen deaths._

> _“Among those who lost their lives in the explosion, security cameras at the docks picked up footage of one civilian who was the closest to the epicenter.”_

The two people in front of her shifted, allowing her to see a part of the TV screen. She couldn’t see the anchor nor could she read the headline at the bottom, but she caught a glimpse of a picture of a young man being displayed on the top corner.

He was young. Brown hair, brown eyes. And under the picture was a name.

_Ray Han._

She bit her bottom lip as her hands found their way to her neck, twiddling a necklace between her thumb and index finger. 

She did not know the man, no.

But that was not the reason why she feels her breath hitching on her throat.

> _"According to Neoville Police Department, 21-year-old Ray Han’s remains—along with the others—are still being examined, as they believe that the explosive is an unusual kind. Law enforcements hope to find anything that can shed light on how it was constructed—and who it was made by.”_

The screen shifts into an interview with the police department’s commissioner. Half of the crowd breaks to leave—probably resuming what it is they were doing before—while the other half remained to hear whatever there is to be said from the authorities.

She stills in her place. No, not to listen to the interview or what the students have to speculate on. But rather, she finds herself unable to move.

Her fingers coil up around her necklace.

They trace her golden locket, running a thumb on the familiar figure of a lion etched on its surface.

She felt her stomach do flips, churning and rattling as if _intending_ to cause her pain. God, she wanted to vomit.

_“...how it was constructed—and who it was made by,”_ she replayed mentally.

Could it possibly be…?

“Kara!”

Weakly spinning her head, she sees Isa approaching. 

She had donned her usual leather jacket—the one that she stubbornly refused to stop wearing almost every other day despite Kara’s encouragement. Isa’s boots made audible clacks on the floor as she makes her way through the scatter of people. 

“There you are!” she chimed. “I was looking for you. Raven’s asking if we’re still down for breakfast.” She rests a hand on her hip. “Or, you know, brunch—considering the time.”

Kara hears every single word spoken—it’s just that her brain isn’t processing it.

It must have been noticeable for Isa as well. 

“Kara?” Her voice quickly turned to one filled with concern. Placing a hand on her shoulders, Isa quietly inquired. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t know what to tell her, to be honest. 

It’s as if her tongue’s gone numb along with her senses. So instead of words, she let her eyes drift back unto the TV. 

Isa followed her, fixating on the screen. 

Kara can hear her mutter an _“oh”_.

A few seconds had passed—dragging on far too long for her anxiety—before she feels a shake on her shoulder. 

“Hey.” 

She locked her eyes with Isa’s, catching the worry swirling underneath them. 

“Breathe,” her roommate instructed.

_And breathe she does._

Taking a big gulp of air, she can feel her stomach dying down on its acrobats. The sounds of the hall slowly returned to her eardrums—though she doesn’t know if she prefers it to—and she slowly cease breaking the cold sweat that she didn’t even realize had covered her forehead.

“Kara, look at me.” 

She does so.

The look Isa gave her is one peppered with some form of intensity, as she felt a hand travel down to her arm. “We don’t know if it’s _them_ , okay?”

“But it could be,” she finally spoke.

Kara felt the fingers on her arm gripping a bit tighter. 

“ _And it could be not_ ,” Isa replied.

Letting out a small sigh, Isa’s hand reached out for the locket that she was still clutching—gently covering her own. Carefully, she eased Kara to hide the necklace underneath her shirt. Tucked away, hidden from view.

As it should be _._

“Come on,” Isa crooned, “Raven’s already at the diner.”

Isa says so, yet they continue to behold one another, blue irises clashing against amber as if exchanging silent—yet shooting—words. 

When Kara finally gave a timid nod, Isa let out an audible breath of relief as she guides them to take leave towards the hall’s exit.

As she walks, Kara ponders if she should stay instead, if she should remain put where she was and force herself to watch news after news after news. She’s not sure what she wishes to gain from doing so but she’s sure that it was her form of self-loathing.

Perhaps doing so will rid her of this guilt inside her— _one that she’s not even sure she owns_.

But she followed Isa out the door. Out where she can take in the fresh air. Out where she can be kissed by the sun and caressed by the early autumn wind. 

Hooking her little finger around Isa’s, she takes her steps—now just a little less wobbly.

And the tiny golden lion on her chest sways along.

* * *

The board was mocking Alena.

The corner of her eye twitched. She’s not sure whether it’s from annoyance or the fact that she had downed 2 cups of americano this morning, but it’s the tenth time it’s done that today.

In front of her was a massive whiteboard, spread from one end of the wall to the other.

Her precinct had set it up in their briefing room last night so everyone can have easy access to it. It had pictures from the site, notes on eyewitness, shots from the security camera—now she was adding a few autopsy reports that had just come. Sure, at first it was empty, but now it’s beginning to fill with pictures and documents pinned sporadically.

Though it wasn’t filling up as fast as she had hoped.

She sighs exasperatedly, trying to better organize the papers in front of her. Considering the haze of events that they all had to go through, she can’t really blame anyone here for being tired. 

Hell, _she_ was exhausted as well. Alena didn’t even catch a wink of sleep before coming in for work this morning. 

The moment she and John reached the docks they had to immediately rush in and help civilians evacuate the area. Then came the ambulance, the fire department, the press—whom she remembers she had to push back as they made unauthorized advances to the ground zero.

With all the panic and disarray, someone might as well put up a giant zoo sign over them. And free tickets.

When the fire began to go under control and most civilians had been cleared out, she had to stay to maintain the police line and occasionally aid in rescue before finally gathering up items for evidence.

And she did so.

_All._

_Night._

_Long._

Officers from other precincts were also there, but the area they needed to cover and secure was massive. She had help from two detectives from the 3rd and 10th precinct and _still_ got to see the daybreak. 

When she finally got back to her apartment—a mere 45 minutes before her shift started—she had never felt so seduced by a bed. 

Good grief, how she wanted to just be buried under her quilt and snore away.

But instead, she took a shower, changed into fresh clothes, and powered up her coffee machine. Every inch of her body would _love_ to drop dead on her mattress right there and then, but she eventually figured she wouldn’t be able to sleep even if she had wanted to.

Not with the sight of red smoke still tucked away in her mind.

And it wasn’t just the smoke or its color.

_It was everything_. 

It was the smell. The sound.

The feel of everything that came and went that night—all of it that had touched her skin. It was all too much, overlapping with one another until all that’s left is a constant ringing inside her head.

And though it had died down since the night passed, a sliver of the noise still stubbornly remained. Dwelling inside her eardrums, echoing from somewhere so far yet infinitely close.

She secretly wonders if she’s keeping occupied to help progress the investigation—or if she’s actually trying to distract herself from hearing it. 

A flat _smack_ jolts her back to the briefing room. 

Looking down, Alena finds that her elbow had bumped into the files that she had just stacked and set aside.

Nice. The day gets even more wonderful. What is she going to topple over next? 

The freaking whiteboard?

Squatting, she mumbles numerous curse words as she leans forward to grab the ones that had fallen too far. There were fewer people in the precinct as some officers and detectives either left to gather eyewitness accounts, made rounds to keep disturbed civilians in check, or were simply still stationed around the site.

The fact that the 6th precinct was the closest to the detonation, among being Neoville's biggest police precinct, was the cherry on top of this moldy, sticky sundae—which to her sounds like an appropriate way to describe the current situation. She’s not going to bother asking someone to help her as everyone is already preoccupied with whatever it is they’d been instructed to do. Everyone is needed where they already are. 

Plus, it’s not like she needs assistance right now. Collecting papers on the floor, pinning them on the board.

Usual stuff. 

She had called John as she drove here. He told her that he still needed to be on the site.

“This city has 45 precincts and how many stations yet they _still_ need more manpower to chase off these god-damn journalists, can you believe it?” he had told her as a rare occasion where he—to Alena's delight—actually sounded as annoyed as she was _._

Maybe that’s because only the precincts closest to the site were the ones tasked with responding, she told the captain.

He told her that’s bullshit.

She told him that’s protocol.

He said screw protocol.

She rolled her eyes.

The conversation had ended with John telling her that he will return to the precinct as soon as he’s allowed to leave. In the meantime, she should help assemble the evidence board. 

“Go and help out the precinct until I get there, Rook. You’re smart enough to know what to do,” he had instructed her before abruptly ending the call.

_Go and help out the precinct_ , he said. 

Like she hasn’t been carrying the whole team’s ass for the past six months. 

Paper after paper she laid on her lap. Thankfully the pile she absentmindedly knocked over wasn't a big one, she only needed to grab one more paper. Her arm outstretched, she drags the paper towards her. The slick texture of it tells her that it's a photograph, perhaps one of the several taken by their crime scene specialist. She flips it over.

And her fingers froze.

She had seen it earlier before it was set aside. They have sufficient autopsy photos on the board, more than enough to make anybody feel uncomfortable. No more would be needed. She told herself she doesn't want to look at it any longer.

Yet now, her hands can’t let go of the photo of Ray Han’s remains. 

She had seen every inch of it. The burned skin, the ripped flesh. His body was charred and disfigured beyond belief, as he was the closest to the bomb. If it weren't for dental records and measly scraps of his clothing, it would be incredibly hard—if not impossible—to identify him. And if it weren't for the security footage that they manage to collect from the dock's numerous CCTV, nobody would have learned how he was the first to discover the bomb after it was left. How he had tried to run from it.

And failed.

Over ten times had her eyes run over the picture, boring into the last bloody details. Each time leaves her lungs contracting, her throat closing.

Ray Han did not deserve this.

Pushing a hand on her knees, she stood up to her full height. She glanced over her shoulder, gazing at the precinct's lobby—eyes flickering over to the front desk that she passes by almost every morning. The computer is off, the desk chair cold and unattended to. Other staff were working on the conjoined desks next to it, but none of them were the ginger-hair and freckled-face that Alena is seeking.

She's not there.

Alena's throat tightened and so did her fist.

Sara did not deserve this, either. 

Cold, invisible hands began running themselves along her forearms, already reaching her shoulders when she plunges herself back to five hours earlier. 

At the break of dawn, as she and numerous other officers carefully listened to the names that had been confirmed. At her stiffening muscles when she caught a name she had heard before. At her legs wanting to give out under her when she remembered from where, _or rather whom_ , she had heard it from.

At how her heart dropped when her phone rang—

—and sinking deeper as “ _Incoming call: Sara Miller”_ illuminated the screen.

It had taken almost all of her power to resist not answering. When she did, Alina drinks in her voice on the other end.

Frantic. Borderline hysterical. Scared—

_—for someone else’s safety._

She felt the rest of her power that didn’t escape earlier flushing away as she told Sara. She doesn’t remember how—she just remembers that she did. She had to.

She must.

So Alena spoke. Word by word. Sentences to sentences. Not knowing how to make it any easier to do, she remembers adopting a neutral, careful tone when she passed the information. And when she was done, all she heard was an empty pause. 

Then, a breath.

Then, a choke. Which soon turned to a sob, a cry.

And finally _—a wail._

She heard a _thud_ , followed by footsteps and comforting whispers as someone tried to ease her friend’s bawling and screaming.

The line ended at some point. And with it; a tiny part of her.

When she took a shower this morning, trying in vain to wash off every layer of guilt and stress that she had built up overnight, Alena guessed that Sara won't be coming in for work today. And she's right—Sara didn't. Good. She shouldn’t. 

Because Alena knows that she would crumble if she sees her.

A shiver disappeared just as quickly as it ran through her body. Racking her brain as she comes back to the board, she asks herself if there is a way to make it look more…full. The sight in front of her was a sad, disappointing excuse for the biggest case they’ve had in years—possibly decades. 

They know all there is they could gather. They know that the ones who left the bomb were a man and a woman who—frustratingly—the department couldn't identify just yet. They know that the two came and went fast enough for it to not be planned ahead. They know that the explosive detonated at 7:43 PM.

And that it wasn’t your usual bomb. 

No. Whatever bastard made this—if it weren't the two unnamed suspects—they had concocted it from materials that you wouldn’t find in a normal TNT or chemical bombs. Samples and residue collected had already been sent to the forensics lab for further analysis, though Alena hasn't heard much being reported back. 

Speaking of which….

Taking out her phone, Alena quickly went through her contacts roster. Scrolling down, down, down, until she sees it—

_Gwen Atkinson._

She tapped the call button, pressing her phone between her shoulder and cheek as she began to rearrange the documents strewn over the table. Ray Han’s autopsy photo was quickly shoved under stacks of documents, out of sight for the time being. 

The dial tone rang and rang. Someone picked up.

“Gwen—”

“Oh my God, heeeey girllll!”

Alena’s lips tightened.

“Did you _finally_ get bored in that briefing room?” Gwen giggled. “Have the great Alena Ainsley finally accepted my humble invitation to hang out and _actually have fun_ for the first time in her life?”

Her eyes twitched again. Without caffeine, this time.

“I mean, Lena, I’m on break right now, just so you know—”

“ _No._ ”

She heard Gwen click her tongue, muttering _“well shit”_ under her breath.

“Look, I was wondering whether you got any results for that substance in the explosi—”

“Wha—Derek, _no_! Not that one. The blue one over there!”

Alena delayed her tongue. One eyebrow raised, she hissed a question. “Is Rigby with you?”

“Yes. Also, the— _just stick your hand in there_ , just do it, dude—the substance! I got the results and holy shit Alena you’re not going to believe—Derek, what the _fuck_ are you doing!?”

Alena had to pinch the bridge of her nose to keep herself from imploding.

“I’m afraid to ask,” she hears creaking metal on the other end “, but _where_ exactly are you two?”

“The vending machines!” Gwen responded.

Her eyebrows knitted. That’s right around the corner of the hall.

She wondered which god or goddess she had to pray to be transformed into another bomb because she was _this_ _close to fucking exploding_. 

She practically fumed into her phone. “Stay _._ There.”

Throwing the rest of the files unto the table a bit too harshly—and earning scornful looks from other detectives _which_ _she threw right back at them_ —she thundered through the hallway.

Making a turn, she was greeted with a peculiar sight.

There was their resident forensics lead Gwen—a petite young woman in a white lab coat—in front of the soda machine. 

Somehow, on the floor was Detective Derek Rigby, someone who's _even newer_ to the department than Alena herself.

And his left arm stuck inside the machine’s flap at the bottom.

_Now, God. You can turn her into a bomb right now._

“Oh, Alena!” Gwen waved at her. “Funny how we keep bumping into each other like this, huh?”

"Yes." Her eyes squinted back and forth between them. “Now I kinda wished we don’t have to bump at all,” she growled, voice mirroring that of a lioness.

As her insult was waved away rather too easily by an unfazed Gwen, she gazed down at Derek. He offered her a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck with his other hand.

“Hey, Ainsley. Good to see—”

“ _Explain.”_

Derek’s smile was obliterated in an instant.

Pressed under Alena's relentless stare, he made an audible gulp, tossing Gwen an unsure look before speaking. “Well, Gwen _insisted_ that I buy her a soda since I owed her one—”

“And not just _any_ soda!” Gwen swung her arm, fingers landing against the machine’s glass. “I wanted— _nay—_ needed the blue lemonade.”

Alena opened her mouth to ask why Gwen is so persistent on blue lemonade but decided to shut herself off. Knowing Gwen, she probably doesn't _really_ want to know the reason. 

"But!" Gwen exclaimed, hinting at Derek to continue. 

“But," the man carried on ", the stupid thing is broken or something, so—”

“You stuck your hand in and tried to grab the soda yourself,” Alena finished for him.

“Yup,” he said with a popped “p”. 

  
  


And then there was silence.

  
  


“Okay. Well, Gwen.” She turned to the small woman, dismissing the detective on the floor. "How were the results?”

Gwen’s face instantly lit up. “Oh! Right, results!”

She rummaged through her lab coat’s pocket with a jitter, digging around. “Where’s that little shit….” Alena heard her whisper as she began pulling things out of the black holes that seemed to be those pockets. 

First was a lollipop. Then, a crumpled paper followed suit by a blue headset. The last thing thrown out was a small Minions figurine— _yes_ —clattering unto the floor.

Alena’s eyes rolled so hard that it began to hurt.

“Here it is!” Gwen sang. Alena hesitantly opened her palms as Gwen carefully handed her an item.

It was a tiny glass vial, a metal cork sitting tight at the top. Inside it is an unnaturally clear blue liquid, sloshing around the inside of the cylinder. It was no bigger than a finger, yet holding it on her palm gave Alena a sense of alertness—and even fright.

This was inside the bomb. 

Or rather, this _was_ the bomb.

“Apparently, it’s called ALR-13. Experimental substance, created and developed by a private-owned lab in Tokyo,” Gwen explained. “I don’t know how it got here, of course, but this thing is _dangerous._ When turned to gas and pressurized, it can implode three times stronger than the kinds of explosives we have here.”

She must’ve seen Alena jerk as she quickly added, “It’s safe now! I took out the explosive and detonator, and it can’t really do anything when it's by itself and without a trigger.”

“Okay….” Alena quaked. “I guess we don't know how this traveled here all the way from Japan, but did you find any trace of this ALR-13—”

“I’ve been kinda calling it Alorr, actually—”

“Did you find any trace of _ALR-13_ in Neoville?” she repeated. Alena’s voice was beginning to crack with irritation. “Any trace? Potential distributor? Buyer?”

Gwen shook her head. “No, nothing in the forensics systems. Sorry, girl. This thing is a freshly born baby.”

“Although…” Derek chimed in. Both Alena and Gwen turned their heads to him.

“Maybe you can take it to the 14th precinct’s lab? They recently had it expanded—crazy if you ask me—and they might have a better data system to track this down.”

She nodded her head. She heard of the lab expansion. That wasn’t a terrible plan, though she was instructed to finish compiling the evidence board first—

“Besides, Captain Isaac said he’s going there as well after he’s done at Kendra’s.”

Alena went full rigid.

For Gwen and Derek, it was as if the temperature around them had turned icy in a second. The usual ringing and clicking around the police station vanished into air.

Gwen palmed her face. _Oh, shit._

Slowly, in an almost eerie way, Alena crooked her head to Derek.

_“What...did you say?”_

Her voice morphed beyond a hiss. Gwen froze in the corner, not daring to provoke further the she-snake in front of her.

“Uh…” Derek was visibly trembling now. “Captain is at Kendra’s—”

But Alena already spun, crashing her foot at the vending machine in a devastating kick. 

Gwen pressed herself even further into the wall. Derek—head just inches under Alina's leg— _screamed_.

The machine now bent up at the sides, beeped and bopped. It made a whirring noise before something clonked out of the flap and rolled onto the floor.

It was a can of blue lemonade.

“HE’S AT _FUCKING_ KENDRA’S!?” Alena roared, reaching down to snatch Derek’s jacket collar. 

The man yelped as he was yanked upwards. He gawked at Gwen, pleading for help—but she mouthed a “ _fuck no_ ” at him and remained a safe distance from the demon hovering above the man.

“YOU COULDN’T HAVE TOLD ME EARLIER!?”

He quivered. “I-I thought you already knew!? That’s just what he told me when we were leaving the site!”

With an animalistic snarl, Alena released the man, his head falling flat against the floor in a pathetic _thud._

Then, still the embodiment of a maelstrom, she left. Stomping so hard that the sound of her boots could still be heard after she had long left the hallway—leaving the two frozen in place. Noises returned to them, that being the pitiful beeping of the soda machine, the sounds of printers and vax machines, and Derek regaining control of his breathing. 

Slowly, Gwen released herself from the corner and walked over to him.

Crouching down...

...she picked up the blue lemonade.

* * *

Tony swears that he hates stairs. Particularly this one.

Not only were the steps built too high for comfort—trudging up slowly from the basement behind him, there wasn’t a lot of light to illuminate the dark, narrow stairways. There wasn’t any window or skylight whatsoever. His eyes would only see pitch black if it weren’t for the small amount of luminosity coming from downstairs.

Each step he took, he had to make sure he had firmly planted his feet before pulling himself up. If he didn't, he'd slip from uneven footing. Or the blanket of dust, considering nobody ever gave enough fucks to consider cleaning this place.

Though now he's already used to doing this, he learned the hard way.

The first time he and Laura had to use this damned old house, let’s just say he got a bit too cocky and proceeded to squash up and down the stairs to prove that—unlike _some_ people’s opinion—he wasn’t “a clumsy idiot".

That ended up with him _barrelling_ down the stairs, much to Laura’s entertainment.

Speaking of the woman, he had already begged her to at least allow him to install a few lights on these stupid stairs. And what did she say?

_“Naw, too much hassle.”_

Wiping away sweat using the end of his stained tank, Tony looked behind him—to the bloodied corpse of a man that he’s dragging, all mangled up.

  
  


This is the same woman who did _that._

  
  


He had always wondered what kind of karma does he have in this life that allows him to be partnered up with someone so conked up in the head like Laura. She could torture, suffocate, and end a man’s life in thirty seconds, but a few light bulbs are apparently _too much hassle—_

“Did he speak?”

He halts, now noticing the figure that now blocks the path in front of him.

A woman stood at the top of the stairs.

She's clad in an immaculate black business suit. Her dark hair tied in a bun, it made her look even taller than she already is. The dim glow of light coming from behind her did nothing to ease the tension that quickly strained Tony's muscles.

And no, he knows that this one is not because he's pulling a literal dead body upstairs. 

“Well?” she inquired, grey eyes scanning him behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.

Tony heaves the body up to his armpits, sighing. “Yes.”

He sees her tilt her chin up, raising an eyebrow at him in silence—commanding him to elaborate.

“It wasn’t him,” he stated, short and simple.

The dust floating around them seems to settle mid-air.

Her shoulders faltered, though not as much as Tony had thought it would. “I see,” she muttered, her voice equally smooth and uneasy. “And Laura?”

Tony gestured to the basement with his head. “Downstairs, cleaning up. Or playing. God knows. Look, Beatrice—”

“Alonzo sent me.”

His body tightened.

“To...make sure that we did our job?”

Beatrice shrugged. “Something like that. Though I suppose...” she eyed the corpse still leaning on his shoulder with a gaze filled with unsettling wonder “...I won’t have anything to report to him.”

His breath swept itself out of his lungs. Carefully, he took another step. “Is that bad?”

“No,” she simply remarked. Then, she regarded him with a look that always successfully halts his blood flow—no matter how often he'd seen it. “It just means that we’ll have to find another person to…. _question._ ”

His throat bobbed, surely gulping a bucketload of saliva if his mouth weren’t so dry right now.

“We’ll just have to continue this another day. We have other suspects.” Beatrice looked to the side—trying to assess what was going on back down there as Laura had begun making a ruckus. 

“Beatrice,” he called out.

She returned her attention to him. He had to take a minute to inhale the breath he lost.

“How long do we have to do this?”

Even though it was too dark to see beyond a few meters in front of him, he could see—no, he could _feel_ —Beatrice pondering to herself.

And slowly, her voice snaked through the darkness, venomous and clear. “Until we get _the right one_.” 

She took a step down, the toes of her stilettos meeting his worn-out canvas shoes. He didn’t break his gaze from her, unsure if it was out of respect or anxiety.

“Until we return the favor to those dragons.”

Tony bit the inside of his cheeks hard enough to bleed. Yet, he nodded his head. 

He didn’t know when she had reached out to him but the next thing he knew her hand slithered up to his shoulder—somehow in a perfectly firm grip.

“ _Sangue e acciaio_ , Antonio.”

Particles of debris and mites entered his throat, shooting down to his lungs as he inhaled.

“ _Sangue e acciaio,_ ” he repeated.

The end of her lips tugged themselves slightly, forming the ghost of a smile. Unraveling the claw on his shoulder, she granted him a small nod.

Then she turned, striding up the stairs as her heels clicked away.

And the golden lion embroidered on the back of her jacket burned itself into Tony’s mind.


End file.
